


Fealty

by staymagical



Series: Fealty [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Knight Keith, M/M, Mentions of War, Prince Lance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staymagical/pseuds/staymagical
Summary: As a prince, Lance must become accustomed to sacrificing for the sake of the kingdom. Thus far, he has avoided sacrificing his own people but as the call of war echoes over Altea, he knows he can no longer avoid it.And he's not sure how he'll cope with himself if his first knight Keith becomes one such sacrifice.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Fealty [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044567
Comments: 9
Kudos: 82





	Fealty

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 4 Seasons Of Klance zine, under the season of Summer
> 
> I was partnered with the lovely [steffanarts](https://www.instagram.com/steffanarts/) who created the gorgeous piece at the head of this story. Was an absolute pleasure to collab with them and bring this story to life.
> 
> Featuring Prince Lance and Knight Keith and the love they share
> 
> Enjoy!

The usual carefree leisure of summer in Altea is shattered by the call to war.

Thick and heavy, it falls over the kingdom like tar, invading every nook and cranny from the alcoves in the citadel to the thatched roof houses in the lower town and all the way to the villages in the far reaches of Altea’s borders. Men are called to action, families displaced and separated, food rationed, and supplies stockpiled for the growing army. 

Lance shifts in his saddle, the heat of the summer sun beating down on his back where it breaks through the gaps in the forest’s canopy. The air tastes of warm leather and sweat infused with the tang of molted bark and moss that litter the forest floor. Beside him, Keith sways in time with his horse’s steps, his body loose and fluid beneath the molded metal and sculpted leather of his knight’s armor. He looks at ease despite the circumstances. Despite the procession, they lead into the jaws of death.

Every beat of the horses’ hooves on the dirt path, every footfall of the men behind him thrums through Lance’s chest in tune with the staccato of his heart, drowning out everything else until it’s all he hears, all he thinks he’ll ever hear. A drum beating their death march. 

And Lance holds the mallet.

He has no choice in the matter, despite the charade of voluntary will he displayed in front of the court. It was expected of him, his father made that perfectly clear. He needed to earn his place as heir to the throne, to show he could lead in a time of war.

But what his father didn’t expect was for him to join the men on the front lines. He’d been furious but Lance had been unwavering and with Keith’s warm presence radiating pride and respect from across the room, his blue-grey gaze ablaze in the candlelight, it had been easy to stand his ground with his head held high. If they were to send their men out to war, why should Lance be exempt?

And like the flow of the tides, his father had no choice but to yield to his request.

Didn’t change the fact that they were heading out to war, that men would lose their lives, that families would be torn apart. It was inevitable. Lance would be damned if he didn’t join them, didn’t fight, bleed, and, if the gods willed it, die alongside his men. 

But Keith, he didn’t choose this fate.

Lance studies the man beside him, the sharp cut of his jaw, piercing hard-set eyes, unruly wild dark hair framing his face, and plaited down his back. 

He didn’t deserve this. 

Lance dragged him into this war. He stole Keith’s choice the moment he declared his intentions to fight on the front lines. If he hadn’t acted so rashly, Keith wouldn’t be forced to follow him into battle, would have stayed safe and whole by Lance’s side in the comforts of the castle or the warmth of a tent. 

Instead, he could very well lose his life at the hands of the Galra.

His father may have declared this war but Keith’s blood will be on Lance’s hands. And he’s not sure he can live with the guilt. Or live without his ever-present shadow, his first knight, his friend, his companion, his—

His greatest love.

Lance tears his gaze away, focusing on the line of mounted soldiers in front of him to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks. He cares about Keith, more than he should, more than propriety would ever allow. It’s terrifying, perhaps more than the threat of war and more than death. It’s been building in his chest for a few summers, this feeling, finally blooming into full just last autumn as the leaves dropped from the trees and bathed the kingdom in golden hues. And Keith along with it. 

He burned in Lance’s eyes.

And now?

Now Lance has forced his hand, torn him away from a promising life of status and nobility, something a poor orphan could only dream of, and thrust him headlong into one of blood and death and pain. He should have never agreed to this, if only for Keith’s sake.

“Stop it.”

Lance startles in his saddle at Keith’s voice, his tone unyielding and sharp with an expression to match. Keith’s gaze remains fixed on the road ahead, the steady clop of the horses echoing through the thickening forest and stirring the underbrush to life. A squirrel darts off into the dense foliage.

“What?” Lance asks, infusing the single word with air and light, aiming for nonchalance, for innocence even though he knows from years of experience Keith has him caught. He plows through nonetheless with a tilt of his chin. “I’m not doing anything.”

With a huff, Keith tears his gaze from the procession ahead to level a glare at Lance. “You’re thinking. You know that’s not good for you.”

There’s the barest of quirks to his lips and Lance quickly latches onto it.

“Even when it’s about you Keefers?” he teases in a mockery of a child’s pout, adding a wink for good humor.

“Especially when it’s about me.” Keith shakes his head, his expression sobering. When he continues, his voice is quiet, solemn with sincerity and determination, “I want to be here, you know. I made my choice a long time ago when I swore fealty to you, to this kingdom. To follow you to the ends of the earth, hell, and back. So don’t you dare think you can ever take that away from me.”

By the end of his tirade, there’s a hardness to his steely gaze, like flint about to catch fire with a single strike of a blade. It tears the words from Lance’s throat, the breath from his lungs until he’s left staring, drowning in a blue-grey storm that threatens to dethrone him should he speak another word against his vow.

It’s a miracle he’s able to keep his horse in line, let alone stay seated. “I-I wasn’t—”

But Keith is unrelenting, gaze piercing. “You were,” he bites out, and guilt settles like a stone in Lance’s stomach. That’s twice now he’s taken something from Keith, first his choice now his fealty. Though they annul one another, he swears not to go for a third, not now, not ever. 

A weight, heavy and melancholy in nature, settles over Keith, pulling at his expression, at his eyes and bowing his back as his shoulders lose some of their gained rigidity. “You think I could ever stand by and watch you ride off into battle alone?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper over the steady drumbeat of the army’s march. It’s tinged with so much pain Lance’s heart threatens to split at the seams. “You go, I go, that’s the deal. For better or for worse.”

That is the deal. And right now, with death hanging over his head, with the pressure of his father, the fate of his men, of the entire kingdom resting squarely on his shoulders, there’s no one he’d rather have by his side. As they march on, toward war, toward victory, toward never-ending guilt.

Toward death.

His next breath stutters in his lungs, so clogged with emotion and love his heart is fit to burst. He chokes, swallows, and by some miracle, huffs out a chuckle.

“Yes, Sir Keith. As you wish,” he says with his usual levity and he’s surprised to find it’s not a ruse. He feels lighter if only a hairsbreadth, heart still heavy with the approaching war and the lives in his hands, but he knows he can weather it.

With Keith by his side.

Keith doesn’t break, eyes near pleading, still locked on Lance as a gentle cooling breeze teases the loose strands of his hair across his face. “I do. Fervently so. Always.” He turns his attention forward then, body easing back into its previous loose fluidity. A smile teases at his lips. “So shut up and stop thinking so loudly. You’ll wake the whole damn forest.”

Lance shakes his head, easing back into his saddle with a smile, his heart bursting. “I’m certain the men are doing that just fine all on their own.”

“Shut up, Your Highness.”

* * *

The beginning of the end dawns like any other, with the faintest hint of light coloring the horizon a hazy red.

Despite the early hours, the camp is abuzz with activity as Keith weaves his way through the throngs of men scrambling to and fro, armor clanking, the constant eerie scrape of wet stones over blades shattering the peace of the waning night. The air is thick with tension and nervous anticipation, adding an extra layer to the warm summer breeze that bodes well for a painfully hot day.

They’re in for a rough battle ahead, but somehow, a calm has settled over Keith. Not unlike that which falls upon him before he squares off against an opponent during a tourney.

But this, this is different. It's the calm after a raging storm, after a night spent languishing in fear and doubt and pain that belies the strength he outwardly displays. The dredges still hum through his veins like the ghost of a future yet unrealized.

In the end, he has clarity. This is the path they’ve been set upon, there is no changing it. The war against the Galra will begin today and stretch on for many more, perhaps months or years. He can’t tear Lance from the camp and squirrel him away until it’s over. He can’t persuade him off from the path he chose for himself. 

No.

But he can stand beside him, encourage him, motivate him, protect him, give every last drop of blood burning in his veins to ensure Lance survives. Just as his vow decreed when he knelt at Lance’s feet all those years ago.

Just as his heart burns to do every day since.

Keith ducks down an alley between rows of tents, his feet carrying him under the guidance of his heart. A pair of soldiers jog past and he sidesteps them in order to not be pummeled by a wayward vambrace. But he pops out the other side, his lips splitting into a grin as he comes face to face with the Altea blue tent only moderately larger than the others but just as plain and unassuming amongst its modest neighbors.

Lance's father would have keeled over if he knew his only son had forgone the usual luxuries and livery. 

“War is no time for frivolous fancies,” had been Lance’s only remark with a shrug and a grunt as he helped the servants pull the canvas taut a few days before.

He is a wonder, their prince. A wonder that dances across the boundaries of status with wit and humor and bleeds with a heart of gold.

The soft murmur of voices escape through the crack in the tent flap giving Keith pause in his task. He hesitates by the entrance, not wanting to eavesdrop but hearing it all the same and his heart rabbits in his breast at the cool tender cadence of Lance’s voice answered only by his manservant Riso’s quiet lilt. No other.

Boldened, Keith clears his throat to announce his presence. “Your highness?” he calls, leaning in close to the flap of the tent. Further down the camp toward the shadowy tree line a horse whinnies. 

The soft chatter inside the tent cuts abruptly, silence following anxious and bated before Lance’s voice answers with a regal, “Enter.”

Flickering candlelight illuminates a more lavish interior than the muted exterior would have one assume. It’s sparsely decorated with naught but a mattress and chest, the prince’s personal armor laid neatly upon the fine linens, a gold inlaid spaulder clutched in Riso’s deft hand. In the corner, Lance’s bow and quiver lean up against the wooden post, intricate carvings yet unmarred by blood and war.

But Keith’s gaze is drawn to the center of the tent, to where Lance stands regal and tense, donned in soft Altea cloth and gold, the delicate circlet upon his crown catching the light with every movement. His eyes flash a brilliant blue as they lock with Keith’s. 

Keith bows, fist over his heart. “I can take it from here, Riso,” he then addresses the servant as he straightens.

Riso hesitates only a moment to finish strapping the spaulder in place, glancing between the two of them before he’s dismissed with a simple nod from Lance and a courteous one from Keith. 

Silence envelops the tent but it’s one born from familiar comfort rather than tension despite the circumstances. The rigidity of Lance’s spine eases with it, curving into something more relaxed though the tension in his shoulders does not dissipate entirely. His body, the language it speaks is something Keith has become acutely attuned to lately. Every shift, every shuffle, the slightest bit of tension or tick of his finger is like an open book to Keith, one he reads effortlessly and cherishes and would love nothing more than to spend every day pouring over until its pages are soft, weathered, and well-loved. 

It is a dream, he knows, built by the fire that has been growing steadily beneath his breast for years now. A fire he has no hope to put out, only bank every once in a while to keep it from raging out of control. But lately, that has become near impossible.

And now with their future’s both hanging in the balance with no inclination as to which way it will tip, holding himself in check seems so trivial.

“It’s okay to be scared.” Keith settles on, walking further into the tent, gaze not leaving Lance’s sharp features. He’s not sure whether he’s talking to himself, knowing that he could very well upend everything with just a few misplaced words but he also finds, despite the fear rabbiting through his heart, he doesn’t mind. 

Come what may, death, ruin, destruction of all he holds dear, he will not go down without bearing his heart even if it may be left broken in the end.

Lance swallows, his throat working, body poised and regal even as his shoulders tighten with just those few words. He shifts under Keith’s gaze before breaking it entirely to pick up a vambrace off the bed and attempt to strap it into place. “I’m not,” he states, ever stubborn.

He doesn’t waiver, doesn’t falter even under Keith’s scrutiny. Even knowing they both can see through his lie with minimal effort. Without a word, Keith sidles next to him and gently lays his hand over Lance’s, stilling his feeble attempts. “I’m scared as well, you know,” he admits with whispered words. His fingers brush over Lance’s bare skin, lingering, letting the warmth bleed into his fingertips as he gently pushes Lance’s hands away and straps the vambrace into place with care and practiced ease.

“You?” Lance chuckles, but it lacks the usual humor. Keith doesn’t comment as he moves to pick up the next vambrace but he can feel Lance’s gaze following him. “What could the fearless first knight of Altea possibly have to fear? You strike enemies down before they can draw their weapon.”

“There is more to fear than just your own death,” Keith intones quietly. And gods above does he know that better than anyone.

The object surrounding most of his fear is standing before him, whole and alive and he would do anything to keep it that way.

Lance shakes his head, drawing Keith’s attention back up. “I don’t fear my death. It’s everyone else’s that terrifies me.” Lance holds his gaze, his eyes a shimmering blue, soft and open and pained, weighed down with enough pressure to bow the backs of most men. “I’m the crowned prince, I’m supposed to give my men strength and courage and lead them into battle. To send them off to their deaths. I can’t be scared, I can’t be anything but sure and true and brave. And I’m just—” he pauses, swallows, before finishing with a soft depreciating breath, “—not.”

His next breath shudders, caught in his throat and Keith takes his forearm with a soft touch, cradling it as he gently straps on the vambrace. 

Lance watches his fingers work, eyes shining with emotion. “This war with the Galra, it is necessary but is it just? They have done great evil, I know, and it must end but at what cost? What kind of man am I to command others to go die for a cause I myself am not even sure will end their suffering? To rip apart families and hearts all for the sake of the unknown?”

He steps back out of Keith’s reach then, and Keith feels the loss of his warmth like a missing limb. Lance is hurting, his mind strained under the weight of his men’s lives, of his kingdom’s future and the role he must fill. 

Lance takes off his circlet, fingering the intricate gold leaves expertly crafted with naught but the king’s coin and command. He stares at it, forlorn. “I am not worthy of my title, not worthy of my position. I should have never agreed to this.”

And he drops the circlet with finality onto the bed linens. 

Keith’s heart breaks. Throughout his life, he has not known or encountered many of royal blood. He tended to avoid them not by choice, but by a separation of social standing. A poor orphaned boy had no reason to converse with the royal line, no right to even stand in their shadow. They had always seemed out of his reach, untouchable. Yet, here he is now, a royal first knight standing with Altea’s crowned prince in his tent, as companions, as friends, as—

His heart rabbits in his chest. No, even if he meets a thousand royals in this life or the next, he’s absolutely certain none could rival the heart and mind of the man who stands before him. 

“If you hadn’t,” Keith begins, lowering his voice and hardening his tone to erase any doubt of his conviction, “do you honestly believe your father wouldn’t have continued on as planned? It’s not your advocacy for this war that the men need. It’s your presence. You, standing side by side as equals in the face of death with your people, commoners and noblemen alike proves you deserve to be their leader today.” He picks up the circlet, the warmth from Lance’s skin still imbued into the delicate gold leaves and intricate carvings and places it back on Lance’s crown where it belongs. “To be their king one day.”

They are so close, Keith can feel the puffs of Lance’s breath whispering over his cheeks like a stolen kiss. Decorum demands he take a step back, give his liege space and room to think and breathe but Keith finds he does not want to. Perhaps it is the piercing blue of Lance’s gaze, studying him, looking at him, so full of something dangerous, something fierce that’s been simmering for far too long. Something that Keith thinks he may recognize, having seen it in his own self for years now.

Whatever it is, it burns into a soft touch to his elbow, tender and intimate that it steals Keith’s breath away. “I don’t deserve you,” Lance whispers, his lips softening at the edges with sincerity.

Keith inclines his head. “Too bad you’re stuck with me.” 

Lance nods, his expression blooming like a flower, becoming raw and earnest and delicate. “I am, as you are with me.” And he steps back without breaking eye contact, his touch disappearing from Keith’s elbow. Keith feels cold and bereft without it but all is quickly washed away as Lance lowers himself to one knee, his eyes shining with something akin to devotion, or more as he bows his head. “I am yours, my knight, my friend, my—” he sighs, raising his head to meet Keith’s shocked gaze, a smile tugging at his lips, blue eyes shimmering as he finishes with a tender whisper, “love. For as long as you can bear to have me.”

And Keith _burns_. His heart is fit to burst from his chest, so light and full and overwhelmed with emotion as he looks down at his prince, his friend, his greatest love, kneeling before him, swearing fealty to his heart and his love, if only Keith would accept.

Keith’s vision blurs with his pricking eyes and he blinks a few times to clear it. “You absolute fool. Rise, please,” he chokes, trying to keep his voice steady but it cracks at the edges, in happiness, in elation, in pure love. Lance does as he bids, standing up with his own smile widening as he settles a hand against Keith’s waist. Even through the leather and armor, Keith swears he can feel the fiery heat of his touch against his skin and he _melts_. “Of course I will have you, through this life and whatever lies beyond the veil. You have my heart forevermore.”

And when he leans in, Lance meets him half-way, bodies fitting together effortlessly in a kiss that sears away the world, the war, the battle ahead, fusing their souls together until the two hearts beat as one.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my Instagram for more Klance and VLD drabbles and short fics: [staymagwrites](https://www.instagram.com/staymagwrites/)


End file.
